Through My Sightless Eyes
by Alaina N. McCoy
Summary: The very end of Jane Eyre, starting from when she comes back to Ferndean, told from Edward's point of view. Might eventually continue further than the book did.
1. Electricity in the Air

**This is my first fan fiction, so I thought I'd start simple. This is simply the last few chapters of Jane Eyre told from Edward's perspective. It starts at chapter 37, when Jane first arrives at Ferndean. Warning: written at 3 in the morning.**

**** I do not own Jane Eyre (obviously), and I pulled all the dialogue directly from the book so as to preserve the original feel of the book. I don't take credit for any dialogue, except for the short exchange between Mary and Mr. Rochester, which was of course not in the book. I did try to sort of capture Charlotte Bronte's manner of writing, but I gave up on that somewhat and let my own style peek through. Anyway, enjoy!**

**Part One**

My keen ears detected the beginning of rainfall, but the pattering of the droplets in the forest did not sway my intent to be out of doors- it was almost as if some strange force was pulling me out of the manor. Making my way down the passages was more difficult than I should have liked; I had been here for what seemed to be forever, yet my wretched blindness was a constant companion, forever inhibiting me; though from what I knew not.

I paused and sighed heavily, leaning against the wall. Pain and grief ravaged my soul as I considered the conundrum I had put to myself: from what was I inhibited? In the end I was forced to concede that naught but my pride was wounded, that what I truly longed for, _my _Janet, I longed for with far more passion than I could ever be prevailed on to allot to the hope of restored vision.

But the impossibly small suggestion of _something_ would not be ignored. Rousing myself and attempting with a swift shake of my head to dislodge my unpleasant train of thought, I continued down the hall, and, my left arm hidden in my jacket- though at the moment there was no one to hide the mutilated stump from, it was a habit- with my right hand I felt along the wall until I reached the door.

I unclosed it and stepped outside, where something in the air changed, suddenly. Rare, hot tears filled my eyes as my mind was pummeled with memories of my Janet. I knew not what it was that triggered such strong repercussions; it was almost as if my subconscious had caught some faint suggestion that she was near. But it was useless: I had to concentrate all of my mental efforts in an attempt to walk about; stretching forth my hand, I attempted to gain some notion of what lay near, but to no avail. I remembered, a distant memory, from lifetimes ago, that the trees lay some ways off as of yet, and as I had no desire to become lost in the forest, I crossed my arms about my chest and remained motionless. I could not help but look up, gazing towards the heavens and the trees, straining to see something, anything; but, alas, all remained invisible.

The rain was falling vigorously now, reminding me that I was wearing neither hat nor coat. I heard the door unclose and John's heavy footsteps on the gravel. 'Will you take my arm, sir?' he said; 'there is a heavy shower coming on: had you better not go in?' More so than usual I could not bear company.

'Let me alone,' I replied curtly, and I heard him withdraw.

I now attempted to walk about, but it was no use. My cursed darkness made it impossible and I had never felt so unsure, so unsteady. Arm outstretched, I found my way back to the door and closed it behind me. Returning to my room at the back of the manor, I stood in front of the neglected fire that I had forgotten again to tend and leaned my head on the mantel.

Through the despair that was my constant companion, I perceived that I was thirsty, and I remembered the comfort that the candles that were brought every night gave me: I rang the bell for Mary and she soon appeared with a quiet, 'Yes, sir?'

'Mary, fetch me a glass of water and my candles, please,' I said softly. I found I no longer had strength to speak louder.

'Yes, sir. And, sir, there is a person here who wishes to see you.' She spoke somewhat hesitantly, and there was a slight tremor of something different in her voice; I could not place it and decided it was not important. After all, what in my life was important anymore?

Shaking my head, I remembered what she said. Her news was mildly surprising: I rarely had visitors, and I usually refused to see anyone that did come.

'Tell him to send in his name and his business.'

'Yes, sir,' she said and her with her light tread unclosed the door and made her exit. I sighed, returning to my former position in front of the fire, weary enough to rest my head against the marble ledge, but unable to sit.

I heard the door open once again and Mary entered. Since I _was _blind, my hearing had rather sharpened and something about her footsteps was off. A memory tugged at the corner of my consciousness, but I brushed it off. Memories were dangerous to me, poison to my tortured heart. I heard the tray set down on a side table.

Pilot, however, seemed to notice something as well: he whined quietly and I heard him rise and greet the person who could only be my servant. 'Lie down!' a soft voice commanded. I turned automatically, attempting in vain to _see; _I of course saw nothing. I sighed.

'Give me the water, Mary.'

I was handed the glass and became aware that Pilot was following Mary. 'What is the matter?' I enquired of my dog. The slight difference in her footsteps, the tremor in her voice, Pilot's strange behavior; all was forming a picture in my mind- of what notion even I knew not what.

'Down, Pilot!' she said again. I halted the glass on its path: I listened, and drank. Mary neither retreated nor spoke another word, and some familiar electricity filled the air.

I set the glass down and swallowed hard as more pieces began to fall into place. The form they were creating was glorious and terrifyingly, dangerously, improbable. Impossible.

'This is you, Mary, is it not?' Before I was even finished uttering the question, I knew the answer. The footsteps, that fantastic hum in the air- and I finally placed Mary's earlier tone of voice: suppressed excitement? The memory found its place and even as she spoke I did not believe it.

'Mary is in the kitchen.' Five words; and oh! how they drove me into agony!

My hand reached out quickly and instinctively to grasp what I did not believe was there: I touched nothing. If the voice did indeed belong to substance, my wretched blindness prevented me from finding it. 'Who is this? Who is this?' I demanded harshly, impatiently. Never before had I wished so for my lost sight! 'Answer me- speak again!' I ordered the impossible voice.

'Will you have a little more water, sir? I spilt half of what was in the glass.' It took the whole of my will to not collapse at her words, her manner; it was perfectly her.

Perfectly a dream: a delusion. '_Who _is it? _What _is it? Who speaks?'

'Pilot knows me, and John and Mary know I am here. I came only this evening,' Jane Eyre said softly and calmly.

'Great God! What delusion has come over me? What sweet madness has seized me?'

'No delusion, no madness: your mind, sir, is too strong for delusion, your health to sound for frenzy.'

'And where is the speaker? Is it only a voice? Oh! I _cannot_ see, but I must feel, or my heart will stop and my brain burst! Whatever- whoever you are- be perceptible to the touch or I cannot live!'


	2. Declarations of Dependence

**Part Two **

'And where is the speaker? Is it only a voice? Oh! I _cannot_ see, but I must feel, or my heart will stop and my brain burst! Whatever- whoever you are- be perceptible to the touch or I cannot live!' I reached desperately, knowing the words I spoke would come true was I not granted this one request.

And, suddenly, my hand was held by both of hers. Her touch was like the first time I met her: she breathed new life into me.

'Her very fingers!' I cried; 'her small, slight fingers! If so, there must be more of her.' I wrenched my hand from her grasp for one terrifying moment but in an instant felt her arm, her shoulder, her waist; I pulled her at long last into my arms, holding on for dear life and swearing I would not let this dream go. Not like the others.

'Is it Jane? _What_ is it? This is her shape- this is her size-'

'And this is her voice,' she added almost playfully. 'She is all here: her heart, too. God bless you, sir! I am so glad to be near you again.'

'Jane Eyre! - Jane Eyre.' It was all I could manage.

'My dear master, I am Jane Eyre: I have found you out- I am come back to you.'

'In truth? -in the flesh? My living Jane?'

'You touch me, sir, - you hold me, and fast enough: I am not cold like a corpse, nor vacant like air, am I?'

'My living darling!' Even as I spoke the words I could not bring myself to believe them. To let myself believe was to expose my wounded soul to further injury. 'These are certainly her limbs, and these her features; but I cannot be so blest, after all my misery.' I was at war with myself: my bleak mind battled against the hunger of my heart and the thirst of my soul. 'It is a dream; such dreams as I have had at night when I have clasped her once more to my heart, as I do now; and kissed her, as thus- and felt that she loved me, and trusted that she would not leave me.'

'Which I never will, sir, from this day.'

'Never will, says the vision? But I always woke and found it an empty mockery; and I was desolate and abandoned- my life dark, lonely, hopeless- my soul athirst and forbidden to drink- my heart famished and never to be fed. Gentle, soft dream, nestling in my arms now, you will fly, too, as your sisters have all fled before you: but kiss me before you go- embrace me, Jane.' I clenched my jaw in an effort to hold back the tears that came with the lamentation of my heart, berating Sleep- for a dream it must be- for all of the empty dreams.

But she my fairy granted my wish and said, 'There sir- and there!' pressing her lips to my sightless eyes, brushing the hair from my temple and kissing that too.

Suddenly it was what I had never allowed it to be before- it was real. My Jane, my mustard seed, she was come back to me.

'It is you- is it, Jane? You are come back to me then?'

'I am.'

'And you do not lie dead in some ditch under some stream? And you are not a pining outcast among strangers?' I said, voicing my worst fears.

'No, sir! I am an independent woman now.'

'Independent! What do you mean, Jane?'

'My uncle in Madeira is dead, and he left me five thousand pounds.' In all my misery I would never invent such a tale.

'Ah! this is practical- this is real! I should never dream that. Besides, there is that peculiar voice of hers, so animating and piquant, as well as soft: it cheers my withered heart; it puts life into it. – What, Janet! Are you an independent woman? A rich woman?'

'Quite rich, sir. If you won't let me live with you, I can build a house of my own close up to your door, and you may come and sit in my parlour when you want company of an evening.' Is this all she desired now? Naught but friendship? Her arrival had mended my broken heart- if she stayed she may well shatter it again.

'But as you are rich, Jane, you have now, no doubt friends who will look after you, and not suffer you to devote yourself to a blind lameter like me?' If she wished to go I would not stop her.

'I told you I am independent, sir, as well as rich: I am my own mistress.' Oh, this was torture- not knowing if it was for pity or for love that she stayed.

But I had to ask, 'And you will stay with me?'

'Certainly- unless you object. I will be your neighbor, your nurse, your housekeeper. I find you lonely: I will be your companion- to read to you, to walk with you, to sit with you, to wait on you, to be eyes and hands to you. Cease to look so melancholy, my dear master; you shall not be left desolate, so long as I live.' I sighed and opened my mouth to speak, but could not. I closed my lips, unable to form the right words. I was lost in thought when I felt Jane start to withdraw, pulling herself from my embrace. I instinctively grasped her closer.

'No- no- Jane; you must not go. No- I have touched you, heard you, felt the comfort of your presence- the sweetness of your consolation: I cannot give up these joys. I have little left in myself- I must have you. The world may laugh- may call me absurd, selfish- but it does not signify. My very soul demands you: it will be satisfied, or it will take deadly vengeance on its frame.' The words burst from my lips before I could stop them, the truth rushing out like a dam had been broken and the massive weight of the water below flooded out: no power on this earth could stop the torrent.

I regretted my rash words, however, as soon as I had uttered them. I held my breath, waited anxiously for her reply. Would she now scorn me in my desperate need? Or would she condemn herself to a life she could not bear- all because she pitied poor Edward Fairfax Rochester.


	3. Questions Not Answered

'Well, sir, I will stay with you: I have said so.' I was torn between joy and guilt. She had money now, and friends in all probability; she could go where she wished, _do _what she wished. I could not.

'Yes- but you understand one thing by staying with me; and I understand another. You, perhaps, could make up your mind to be about my hand and chair- to wait on me like a kind little nurse (for you have an affectionate heart and a generous spirit, which prompt you to make sacrifices for those you pity), and that ought to suffice for me no doubt. I suppose I should now entertain none but fatherly feelings for you: do you think so? Come- tell me.'

'I will think what you like, sir: I am content to be only your nurse, if you think it better.' Her submissive words touched me to the core and I knew, however excruciatingly painful to me, that I could not ask her to stay: for stay she would, were I to beg it of her.

'But you cannot always be my nurse, Janet. You are young- you must marry someday.'

'I don't care about being married.' I almost laughed how familiar that stubborn tone was.

'You should care, Janet: if I were what I once was, I would try to make you care- but- a sightless block!' I was utterly useless.

After a pause, she said cheerfully, 'It is time someone undertook to rehumanise you.' Her soft little hands played with my hair. 'For I see you are being metamorphosed into a lion, or something of that sort. You have a "faux air" of Nebuchadnezzar in the fields about you, that is certain: your hair reminds me of eagles' feathers; whether your nails are grown like birds' claws or not, I have not yet noticed.'

'On this arm I have neither hand nor nails,' I said harshly, pulling my left arm from my shirt. 'It is a mere stump- a ghastly sight! Don't you think so, Jane?'

Her gentle words did not surprise me, because I knew her. 'It is a pity to see it; and a pity to see your eyes- and the scar of fire on your forehead: and the worst of it is, one is in danger of loving you too well for all this; and making too much of you,' she said softly, but there was an edge of something in her voice.

To mask the pain that her words about pity had given me, I said, 'I thought you would be revolted, Jane, when you saw my arm, and my cicatrized visage.'

'Did you? Don't tell me so- lest I should say something disparaging to your judgment. Now, let me leave you an instant, to make a better fire, and have the hearth swept up. Can you tell when there is a god fire?'

I perceived, of course, that her sole aim at present was to be cheerful and thought it best to attempt the same. It was not difficult: her very presence filled me with life and light.

Remembering her question, I replied, 'Yes; with the right eye I see a glow- a ruddy haze.'

'And you see the candles?'

'Very dimly- each is a luminous cloud.'

I heard her soft footsteps return, stopping in front of me.

'Can you see me?'

'No, my fairy,' I said softly, trying my best to keep the sorrow out of my voice. 'But I am only too thankful to hear and feel you.'

'When do you take supper?'

'I never take supper.'

'But you shall have some tonight. I am hungry: so are you, I daresay, only you forget.' I could not help but smile: she had not changed. She summoned Mary, and I heard them tidy the room somewhat and tend the fire.

We talked all through supper, and long afterwards. I suppose she accomplished what she wanted: I was cheered, infinitely. I forced myself not to think of the possibility- no, the necessity of her leaving, and instead allowed myself to finally be happy. She seemed happy, as well, both of us talking and laughing like we used to.

Except I could not see her. I was terrified that one moment she would simply be gone: she would disappear again, just like she had all those months ago- the night she broke my heart.

If there was a pause in the conversation of but a moment- whenever I did not hear her I could not help but reach out and touch her, speak her name so that I knew I was not alone.

'You are altogether a human being, Jane? You are certain of that?'

'I conscientiously believe so, Mr Rochester.

'Yet how, on this dark and doleful evening, could you so suddenly rise on my lone hearth?' I was begging for a reason, something to justify her existence and prove to myself that she really was here. 'I stretched my hand to take a glass of water from a hireling, and it was given me by you: I asked a question, expecting John's wife to answer me, and your voice spoke at my ear.'

'Because I had come, in Mary's stead, with the tray.' What incomplete, sly answers did she give!

'And there is enchantment in the very hour I am now spending with you. Who can tell what a dark, dreary, hopeless life I have dragged on for months past?' I mused quietly. 'Doing nothing, expecting nothing, merging night into day; feeling but the sensation of cold when I let the fire go out, of hunger when I forgot to eat: and then a ceaseless sorrow, and, at times, a very delirium of desire to behold my Jane again. Yes: for her restoration I longed, far more than for that of my lost sight. How can it be that Jane is with me, and says she loves me? Will she not depart as suddenly as she came? Tomorrow, I fear I shall find her no more.'

She did not reply, merely passed her hand over my brow, informed me that my eyebrows were scorched, and promised to apply something to make them grow back. Even her casual cheerfulness was not enough to pull me from my gloom.

'What is the use of doing me good in any way, beneficent spirit, when, at some fatal moment, you will again desert me- passing like a shadow, wither and how to me unknown, and for me remaining afterwards undiscoverable?'

She seemed determined to ignore me. 'Have you a pocket- comb about you, sir?'

'What for, Jane?'

'Just to comb out this shaggy black mane. I find you rather alarming, when I examine you close at hand: you talk of my being a fairy, but I am sure, you are more like a brownie.' She would tease me, but despair is a difficult habit to break.

'Am I hideous, Jane?'

'Very, sir: you always were, you know.'

'Humph!' I snorted, to cover my laugh. Perhaps, I thought, despair may not be so hard to get rid of after all. 'The wickedness has not been taken out of you, wherever you have sojourned.'

'Yet I have been with good people; far better than you: a hundred times better people; possessed of ideas and views you never entertained in your life: quite more refined and exalted.'

'Who the deuce have you been with?' I exclaimed, turning automatically; though what good looking at her would do I knew not.

'If you twist in that way you will make me pull the hair out of your head; and then I think you will cease to entertain doubts of my substantiality.'

'Who have you been with, Jane?' I would not be diverted.

'You shall not get it out of me tonight, sir; you must wait till tomorrow; to leave my tale half told, will, you know, be a sort of security that I shall appear at your breakfast table to finish it. By the bye, I must mind not to rise on your hearth with only a glass of water then: I must bring an egg at least, to say nothing of fried ham.' I shook my head slightly, a small smile playing about my lips. She would never cease to perplex me, that was certain- that was why I loved her.

'You mocking changeling- fairy-born and human-bred! You make me feel as I have not felt these twelve months. If Saul could have had you for his David, the evil spirit would have been exorcised without the aid of a harp.'

'There, sir,' she said, paying no mind to my ramblings, 'you are redd up and made decent. No I'll leave you: I have been travelling these last three days, and I believe I am tired. Good-night.' Three days- she had been but three days away and it had felt like a million lifetimes that my Janet and I had been apart.

'Just one word, Jane: were there only ladies in the house where you have been?'

To my utter vexation, I did not receive an answer: instead she laughed and I heard her light footsteps spring up the steps to her room. I shook my head, laughing to myself in an attempt to keep the sickening fear at bay.

I slept fitfully that night, tossing and turning and wishing more than anything I could run upstairs and see with my own eyes that my Jane was really here; that she had not been an illusion or a dream or madness. I awoke frequently and a hazy image of her, during her absence, loving another haunted my sightless eyes- eyes that could see only dreams. Reality was invisible to me.


	4. First True Happiness

**Okay, so this chapter took a ridiculously long time to upload- sorry! I was really busy and also having a little bit of writer's block. This chapter's also a lot longer than the previous ones... Anyway, I hope you enjoy it and merry Christmas!**

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When I awoke- at last at a decent hour, I judged from John and Mary's activity- I dressed as hurriedly as I could. I was about to leave my room and find Mary when, hand on the door, I stopped cold, a repressed, anxious fear rising in my breast.

God, I thought- what if it _had _been a dream? Indeed, it had _seemed_ real enough, but all of last night was a ghost, a memory stamped forever in my mind, the reality of which was fading quickly.

One thing was certain. If indeed my Jane's sudden return last night had been a dream, that knowledge would crush what little of myself I had left. The effects of my heart's fantasies would devastate my soul; surely to the point of death.

Either way, I could not delay any longer. I unclosed the door and called, 'Mary?'

She entered my presence with hasty footsteps and a quiet, 'Yes, sir?'

'Is Miss Eyre here?' Having uttered the question, I felt dreadful anxiety at both the possible 'no' and the knowledge that if she was not here, Mary and John would surely think me utterly mad. The former matter was of course more pressing, but I still retained a small amount of my pride and could not bear to be pitied.

'Yes, sir.' Her affirmative response caught me off guard: I had been subconsciously preparing for the worst, attempting to ready my heart in any way possible for the crushing blow that I feared would issue from her lips.

When I was sure I had heard her right, relief washed over me, overpowering any other feelings for a moment. I cleared my throat and began to ask after her.

'Which room did you put her in? Was it dry?' I was answered in due course and instructed Mary, 'Go up and see if she wants anything, and when she will come down.'

'Yes, sir,' she said softly, and I detected an edge of laughter in her voice, which I ignored.

She departed and I moved to the small sitting room and sat to wait for her. She did not come down for some time, and I was lost in thoughts and memories as I waited.

'It is a bright, sunny morning, sir,' a vivacious, cheerful voice spoke suddenly from the utter silence. 'The rain is over and gone, and there is a tender shining after it: you shall have a walk soon.'

I beamed, a delighted smile lifting my lips.

'Oh, you are indeed there, my skylark! Come to me. You are not gone: not vanished? I heard one of your kind an hour ago, singing high over the wood: but its song had no music for me, any more than the rising sun had rays. All the melody on earth is concentrated in my Jane's tongue to me ear (I am glad it is not naturally a silent one), all the sunshine I can feel is in her presence.'

She was quiet for a moment, but soon busied herself with preparing breakfast.

We took a long walk outside in the fresh, open air. Janet took my arm and guided me about, describing everything in such vivid detail that I did not have reason to long for my lost sight. I marveled at the life and strength her touch gave me, her little hand pressing my arm; I wondered at the comfort her soft voice brought, soothing my shattered heart and mending it slowly. I could have continued like this forever, putting off the discussions that, though necessary, were sure to bring pain.

After we had been walking for a time, she found us a spot to rest; a dry stump hidden in the wood- quite a beautiful place, she told me. She guided me to the seat and yielded immediately to my attempt to place her on my knee. I knew that, for the moment at least, both of us were happier near than apart. Pilot, who had followed us, lay down beside us and all was silent for a time.

But my curiosity far outweighed my ability to be content, and I at last addressed that which had been so far most stubbornly avoided.

'Cruel, cruel deserter!' I cried, holder her beloved form tightly. 'Oh, Jane, what did I feel when I discovered you had fled from Thornfield, and when I could nowhere find you; and, after examining your apartment, ascertained that you had taken no money, nor anything which could serve as an equivalent! A pearl necklace I had given you lay untouched in its little casket; your trunks were left corded and locked as they had been prepared for the bridal tour. What could my darling do, I asked, left destitute and penniless? And what did she do? Let me hear now.' And so I finally heard what had become of my poor Janet in her absence.

She had suffered much, I mused as she recounted three days of wandering, of no food, of sleeping on the ground; she suffered more so, I believe, than she revealed to me. Her three days of wandering had been hard indeed, and, despite the immense pain her tale caused me, it was reassuring to hear everything told in such detail as it was: I did not have so much imagination that this could be my own dream.

I was shocked and pleased to find that those who had saved her life by taking her in were her relations. The warmth and love in her voice when she spoke of her new cousins, Diana, Mary, and St John was evident. This St John's name, however, appeared far more than I should have liked it to, and never did Jane speak an ill word of him. When she had finished her account, I could not but inquire about him directly.

'This St John, then, is your cousin?'

'Yes.'

'You have spoken of him often: do you like him?' I asked directly. Her reply, however, maddeningly did not match the blunt nature of my question.

'He was a good man, sir; I could not help liking him.'

'A good man. Does that mean a respectable well- conducted man of fifty? Or what does it mean?' I said, voicing my personal hopes in regard to his age and character.

'St John was only twenty- nine, sir.' I sighed. Of course he was: luck was ever- absent from my life.

'"_Jeune encore_," as the French say. Is he a person of low stature, phlegmatic, and plain. A person whose goodness consists rather in his guiltlessness of vice, than in his prowess in virtue.'

'He is untiringly active. Great and exalted deeds are what he lives to perform.' I was determined, now, to find out some reason, some last chance of hope that I could ever hope to compete with this new cousin for my Jane's affections.

'But his brain? That is rather soft? He means well: but you shrug your shoulders to hear him talk?' This inquiry did not bring a favorable response either.

'He talks little, sir: what he does say is ever to the point. His brain is first- rate, I should think not impressible, but vigorous.'

'Is he an able man, then?'

'Truly able, sir.' Although I detected the teasing in her voice, her words cut me to the core, for I was no longer an able man.

'A thoroughly educated man?'

'St John is an accomplished and profound scholar.'

'His manners, I think, you said are not to your taste? –priggish and parsonic?'

'I never mentioned his manners; but, unless I had very bad taste, they must suit it; they are polished, calm, and gentlemanlike.' I was beginning to lose all hope; I heard the soft, playful notes in her voice but could not but be melancholy, though she was only teasing me.

'His appearance, -I forget what description you gave of his appearance; - a sort of raw curate, half strangled with his white neckcloth, and stilted up on his thick- soled high- lows, eh?'

'St John dresses well. He is a handsome man: tall fair, with blue eyes, and a Grecian profile.'

'Damn him!' I muttered to myself- I could not help it. 'Did you like him, Jane?' I asked quietly.

'Yes, Mr Rochester, but you asked me that before.'

'Perhaps you would rather not sit any longer on my knee, Miss Eyre?' I blurted suddenly. I couldn't bear to hold my Jane as I did now if she belonged to another. _She is not your Jane anymore, you fool,_ a voice in my head whispered. The thought struck me almost physically, knocking the breath out of me and crushing my soul under the weight of suddenly absent hope.

'Why not, Mr Rochester?'

'The picture you have drawn is suggestive of a rather too overwhelming contrast. Your words have delineated very prettily a graceful Apollo: he is present to your imagination, - tall, fair, blue-eyed, and with a Grecian profile. Your eyes dwell on a Vulcan,' I spat the word, cursing my own body. '- a real blacksmith, brown, broad- shouldered: and blind and lame into the bargain.'

Jane, naturally, chose to ignore most of my speech. 'I never thought of it, before: but you are rather like Vulcan, sir.'

'Well, you may leave me, ma'am: but before you go,' I held her closer, memorizing how she felt before she left, 'you will be pleased just to answer me a question or two.' I paused, lost in thought.

'What questions, Mr Rochester?' Jane said cheerfully, pulling me from my reverie.

'St John made you schoolmistress of Morton before he knew you were his cousin?'

'Yes.'

'You would often see him? He would visit the school sometimes?'

'Daily.'

'He would approve of your plans, Jane? I know they would be clever, for you are a talented creature!'

'He approved of them- yes.'

'He would discover many things in you he could not have expected to find? Some of your accomplishments are not ordinary.' I f she was, as I believed she was, to marry this man, I hoped he deserved her. I prayed that he valued her half as much as I did.

'I don't know about that.' Anger rose up inside me briefly at the knowledge that this St John did not lavish on her the praise she deserved.

'You had a little cottage near the school, you say: did he ever come there to see you?'

'Now and then.'

'Of an evening?'

'Once or twice.' I paused again.

'How long did you reside with him and his sisters after the cousinship was discovered?'

'Five months.'

'Did Rivers spend much time with the ladies of his family?'

'Yes; the back parlour was both his study and our: he sat near the winder, and we by the table.'

'Did he study much?'

'A good deal.'

'What?'

'Hindostanee.' How strange.

'And what did you do meantime?'

'I learnt German, at first.'

'Did he teach you?'

'He did not understand German.'

'He did not understand German.'

'Did he teach you nothing?'

'A little Hindostanee.' The answer was not, of course, one to my liking; it presented too many other questions.

'Rivers taught you Hindostanee?'

'Yes, sir.'

'And his sisters also?'

'No.'

'Only you?'

'Only me.'

'Did you ask to learn?'

'No.' She seemed determined to make me do all the work, and give no more information at each question than was absolutely necessary.

'He wished to teach you?'

'Yes.'

'Why did he wish it? Of what use could Hindostanee be to you?'

'He intended me to go with him to India,' she said, and I detected a hint of false innocence in her voice, suggesting that the indignation the implication aroused me to was exactly what she wished. I reciprocated by masking my dismay completely.

'Ah! here I reach the root of the matter. He wanted you to marry him?'

'He asked me to marry him.'

'That is a fiction- an impudent invention to vex me.' She was indeed capable of such a tale.

'I beg your pardon, it is the literal truth: he asked me more than once, and was as stiff about urging his point as ever you could be.'

'Miss Eyre, I repeat it, you can leave me. How often am I to say the same thing? Why do you remain pertinaciously perched on my knee, when I have given you notice to quit?' I asked her, ignoring the terror that accompanied my own words.

'Because I am comfortable there.'

'No, Jane,' I said, resigning myself once again to my fate, but resolving to speak, for once, my true feelings. 'You are not comfortable there, because your heart is not with me: it is with this cousin- this St John. Oh, till this moment, I thought my little Jane was all mine! I had a belief she loved me even when she left me: that was an atom of sweet in much bitter. Long as we have been parted, hot tears as I have wept over our separation, I never thought that while I was mourning her, she was loving another But it is useless grieving. Jane leave me: go and marry Rivers.'

'Shake me off, then, sir,- push me away, for I'll not leave you of my own accord,' was the rather unexpected and comfortingly piquant reply.

'Jane, I ever like your tone of voice: it still renews hope, it sounds so truthful. When I hear it, it carries me back a year. I forget that you have formed a new tie. But I am not a fool- go-'

'Where must I go, sir?'

'You own way- with the husband you have chosen.'

'Who is that?' Goodness, she did not used to be so slow; though it occurred to me she was teasing me again.

'You know- this St John Rivers.'

'He is not my husband,' she said, her voice becoming more serious, 'nor ever will be. He does not love me: I do not love him. He loves (as he _can_ love, and that is not as you love) a beautiful young lady called Rosamond. He wanted to marry me only because he thought I should make a suitable missionary's wife, which she would not have done. He is good and great, but severe; and, for me, cold as an iceberg.' Yet, what she had just described- coldness and severity- was an exact depiction of myself before my little fairy crossed my path. If she had not been able to save him as she had saved me, I imagined that there was no hope for the poor fellow. 'He is not like you, sir: I am not happy at his side, nor near him, nor with him. He has no indulgence for me- no fondness. He sees nothing attractive in me; not even youth- only a few useful mental points.- Then must I leave you, sir, to go to him?'

I felt her shudder at the thought and she held me closer. I beamed at her instinctive wish to be close to me.

'What, Jane! Is this true? Is such really the state of matters between you and Rivers?'

'Absolutely, sir! Oh, you need not be jealous! I wanted to tease you a little to make you less sad: I thought anger would be better than grief. But if you wish me to love you, could you but see how much I _do _ love you, you would be proud and content. All my heart is your, sir: it belongs to you; and with you it would remain, were fate to exile the rest of me from your presence for ever.'

This speech set my soul aflame with fresh, life giving, hopeful fire, and I kissed her; but as I did so I remembered the sad affair that was my physical self.

'My seared vision! My crippled strength!' I murmured, regretful.

She caressed me, but spoke not, even when, turning my head away, I allowed a single tear to slide down my cheek.

'I am no better than the old lightning- struck chestnut- tree in Thornfield orchard,' I mused after a length of silence. 'And what right would that ruin have to bid a budding woodbine cover its decay with freshness?'

'You are no ruin, sir- no lightning- struck tree: you are green and vigorous. Plants will grow around your roots, whether you ask them or not, because they take delight in your bountiful shadow; and as they grow they will lean towards you, and wind round you, because your strength offers them so safe a prop.'

Nothing could comfort me like my Janet: I smiled.

'You speak of friends, Jane?'

'Yes, of friends,' she answered, and the hesitation in her voice restored the hope that her words had stolen.

'Ah! Jane. But I want a wife.'

'Do you, sir?'

'Yes: is it news to you?'

'Of course: you said nothing about it before.'

'Is it unwelcome news?'

'That depends on circumstances, sir- on your choice.'

'Which you shall make for me, Jane. I will abide by your decision.'

'Choose then, sir- _her who loves you best._'

As I was no judge of that, I said, 'I will at least choose- _her I love best._ Jane, will you marry me?'

'Yes, sir.' I suppressed the joy that was rising in my heart.

'A poor blind man, whom you will have to lead about by the hand?'

'Yes, sir.'

'A crippled man, twenty years older than you, whom you will have to wait on?' I nearly shuddered at my own words, cringing inwardly at the things that marred me.

'Yes, sir.'

'Truly, Jane?'

'Most truly, sir.'

'Oh! my darling! God bless you and reward you!'

'Mr Rochester, if ever I did a good deed in my life- if ever I thought a good thought- if ever I prayed a sincere and blameless prayer- if ever I wished a righteous wish,- I am rewarded now. To be your wife is, for me, to be as happy as I can be on earth.'

'Because you delight in sacrifice.'

'Sacrifice!' she exclaimed almost indignantly. 'What do I sacrifice? Famine for food, expectation for content. To be privileged to put my arms round what I value- to press my lips to what I love- to repose on what I trust: is that to make a sacrifice? If so, then certainly I delight in sacrifice.'

'And to bear with my infirmities, Jane: to overlook my deficiencies.'

'Which are none, sir, to me,' she said, and her words gave me immense comfort; though I supposed it would be some time before I could fully believe her. 'I love you better now, when I can really be useful to you, than I did in your state of proud independence, when you disdained every part but that of the giver and protector.'

'Hitherto I have hated to be helped- to be led: henceforth, I feel I shall hate it no more. I did not like to put my hand into a hireling's, but it is pleasant to feel it circled by Jane's little fingers, I preferred utter loneliness to the constant attendance of servants; but Jane's soft ministry will be a perpetual joy. Jane suits me: do I suit her?'

'To the finest fibre of my nature, sir.' I heard accents of truth and happiness in her tone: it pleased me to know that I made her happy.

'The case being so, we have nothing in the world to wait for: we must be married instantly.' I was eager now, a much so as I had been a year since. This time, however, it was not that frenzied hurry to be married before my wife was discovered: no, now it was pure, honest excitement.

'We must become one flesh without any delay, Jane: there is but the license to get- then we marry.'

'Mr Rochester, I have just discovered the sun is far declined from its meridian, and Pilot Is actually gone home to his dinner. Let me look at your watch.'

'Fasten it into your girdle, Janet, and keep it henceforward: I have no use for it.'

'It is nearly four o'clock in the afternoon, sir. Don't you feel hungry?'

'The third day from this must be our wedding- day, Jane. Never mind fine clothes and jewels, now: all that is not worth a fillip.'

'The sun has dried up all the rain- drops, sir. The breeze is still: it is quite hot.'

I continued my rambling without heeding her (had not she done the same to me on many occasions?) 'Do you know, Jane, I have your little pearl necklace at this moment fastened round my bronze scrag under my cravat? I have worn it since the day I lost my only treasure, as a memento of her.'

'We will go home through the wood: that will be the shadiest way.' We were now engrossed in entirely separate monologues.

'Jane! you think me, I daresay, an irreligious dog: but my heart swells with gratitude to the beneficent God of this earth just now. He sees not as man sees, but far clearer: judges not as man judges, but far more wisely. I did wrong: I would have sullied my innocent flower- breathed guilt on its purity: the Omnipotent snatched it from me. I, in my stiff- necked rebellion, almost cursed the dispensation: instead of bending to the decree, I defied it. Divine justice pursued its course; disasters came thick on me: I was forced to pass through the valley of the shadow of death. _His_ chastisements are mighty; and one smote me which has humbled me for ever. You know I was proud of my strength: but what is it now, when I must give it over to foreign guidance, as a child does its weakness? Of late, Jane- only of late- I began so see and acknowledge the hand of God in my doom. I began to experience remorse, repentance; the wish for reconcilement to my Maker. I began sometimes to pray: very brief prayers they were, but very sincere.

'Some days since: nay, I can number them- four; it was last Monday night, a singular mood came over me: one in which grief replaced frenzy- sorrow, sullenness. I had long had the impression that since I could nowhere find you, you must be dead, Late that night- perhaps it might be between eleven and twelve o'clock- ere I retired to my dreary rest, I supplicated to God that, if it seemed good to Him, I might soon be taken from this life, and admitted to that world to come, where there was still hope of rejoining Jane.

'I was in my own room, and sitting by the window, which was open: it soothed me to feel the balmy night- air; though I could see no stars and only by a vague, luminous haze, knew the presence of a moon. I longed for thee, Janet! Oh, I longed for thee both with soul and flesh! I asked of God, at once in anguish and humility, if I had not been long enough desolate, afflicted, tormented; and might not soon taste bliss and peace once more. That I merited all I endured, I acknowledged- that I could scarcely endure more, I pleaded; and the alpha and omega of my heart's wishes broke involuntarily from my lips in the words- 'Jane! Jane! Jane!'

'Did you speak these words aloud?' she asked quietly.

'I did, Jane. If any listener had heard me, he would have thought me mad: I pronounced them with such frantic energy.'

'And it was last Monday night, somewhere near midnight?'

'Yes; but the time is of no consequence: what followed is the strange point. You will think me superstitious,- some superstition I have in my blood, and always had: nevertheless, this is true- true at least it is that I heard what I now relate.'

I had some trepidation about relating to her the strange occurrence, but remembered that we were soon to be married, and I ought to tell her. Indeed, I could hardly imagine her being so disturbed by it that it could change anything.

'As I exclaimed "Jane! Jane! Jane!" a voice- I cannot tell whence the voice came, but I know whose voice it was- replied, "I am coming: wait for me;" and a moment after, went whispering on the wind the words- "Where are you?"

'I'll tell you, if I can, the idea, the picture these words opened to my mind: yet it is difficult to express what I want to express. Ferndean is buried, as you see, in a heavy wood, where sound falls dull, and dies reverberating. "Where are you?" seemed spoken amongst mountains; for I heard a hill- sent echo repeat the words. Cooler and fresher at the moment the gale seemed to visit my brow: I could have deemed that in some wild, lone scene, I and Jane were meeting. In spirit, I believe we must have met. You no doubt were, at that hour, in unconscious sleep, Jane: perhaps your soul wandered from its cell to comfort mine; for those were your accents- as certain as I live- they were yours!'

She said nothing, and silence continued for a short period. Had she not been enveloped in my arms- had I not been able to touch her, her muteness would have terrified me to the core. My blindness still made me unsure of her reality: when I could not hear her, she had disappeared once again into the night.

I roused myself from my musings and continued thus: 'You cannot now wonder that when you rose upon me so unexpectedly last night, I had difficulty in believing you any other than a mere voice and vision, something that would melt into silence and annihilation, as the midnight whisper and mountain echo had melted before. Now, I thank God! I know it to be otherwise. Yes, I thank God!' I removed her off of my knee and rose; taking off my hat, I bent my useless eyes to the ground.

I then uttered, if not aloud, then at least fervently, the most sincere prayer my heart had ever been willing to give; I stood in silent reverence, giving thanks where thanks was due.

'I thank my Maker, that, in the midst of judgment, he has remembered mercy. I humbly entreat my Redeemer to give me strength to lead henceforth a purer life than I have done hitherto!' I ended my prayer aloud, and gave Jane my hand. She pressed it to her lips and then passed it round her shoulder. I remembered the first time I ever met her: the fresh life that her touch had given me then still stole into my frame as I put my arm round her shoulders. We reentered the wood and my Janet guided me home.


	5. Musings of a Married Man

**A/N: I'm sorry this took so ridiculously long and that it's so short... I have no excuses... I'm a bad updater. Oh well- here it is now!** **(Apologies for the perhaps overly fluffy nature of this chapter)**

* * *

Reader, I married her.

Our union was small and quite: Jane and I were the only ones present, save the people required to perform the marriage. Neither of us had anyone anymore, no one but each other and it was magnificently lonely. No, lonely was not the right word. Lonely, I thought, implied that sadness accompanied the solitude; I was anything but sad that day. Perhaps the syllables I was searching for did not exist: perhaps society, in its narrow, confined mindset, refused to acknowledge that we do not always need a great multitude of people to love us. I believe it takes only one.

As we rode home in the carriage after the wedding, my Janet wrapped in my arms, I reflected on my life: thought about all I had been before my little fairy crossed my path, felled my horse and stole my heart. I came to the stunning realization that throughout my entire existence, all my mistakes and mistresses and false pleasures, I had never been truly happy. I smiled and kissed my wife on the forehead, silently thanking her for changing that.

No longer did the words _my wife _inflict pain the way they had before, when they brought a madwoman to mind instead of my innocent Jane. I had nothing to hide anymore, no dark secrets, and it felt as if a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders: it had been crushing the very life out of my soul and I had never even realized it.

I was not a deeply philosophical man. I found myself, however, experiencing sentiments and ideas much more profound than I imagined myself capable of. I remembered what I had asked Jane, lifetimes ago it seemed- whether she thought that my hard India-rubber exterior could ever be softened; I wondered then if I could change. I had rather thought I could not: I had neither the energy nor the inclination, and in a way I had been correct.

I did not change. She changed me. My piquant Jane found her way past the sarcastic, demanding shell that had been my whole self and taught my stubborn heart to love again. I remembered my harsh demeanor and the demanding way I ordered everyone- including her- about, and was retrospectively shocked that she had not been offended and rather irritated: certainly the manners I had used with her were not the same as those I (with great effort) had maintained in high society.

I repressed a shudder at the thought of the people whose company I had had to frequent before. I was fairly certain that there was no need for Jane and I to be a part of society anymore: we did not want them and they did not want us.

"Of what are you thinking, Edward?" Jane asked suddenly.

I smiled and my lips sought her forehead again. "Of all the good you have done me, beneficent spirit." I heard her laugh softly at the reference to the night she had returned. It seemed like lifetimes ago.

"There cannot have been so much good done. I am nothing but your plain, Quakerish governess- as I am sure I have told you before."

"Ah, but it is there you are wrong: you are now my plain, Quakerish _wife._"

"It is a title I hope to do great honor to, sir," said she.

"You mock me, my dear."

"Of course I do; but never mind that: there is something I wished to ask you."

"And what is that, my fairy?"

"Are you happy?" she inquired with hesitation that was extremely rare for her.

"Yes, Jane, I am happy." I had never spoken anything more true in my life.


End file.
